


I Will Fear

by littlehollyleaf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Episode: s07e14 Plucky Pennywhistle's Magical Menagerie, Gen, Not Really Character Death, Pre-Slash, but Dean (and myself at the time of writing) didn't know that so..., depending on your goggles, since Cas isn't really dead ofc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-17
Updated: 2012-02-17
Packaged: 2019-09-06 12:40:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16832812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlehollyleaf/pseuds/littlehollyleaf
Summary: Set during 7.14.When something of Dean's accidentally slips into Howard's fire in Plucky's basement he finds himself face-to-face with his own fear. And it's certainly not clowns.





	I Will Fear

**Author's Note:**

> There wasn't enough angst in this episode. I needed to fix that.

Smooth, self-assured and just this side of cocky.

That's the smile Dean gives the wackjob in the rainbow coat waving the gun around, after he's dumped the childhood drawing and stupid papier-mâché clown into the burning oilcan between them. Handy, how the wanna-be occultist kept that flaming for him.

There was a time a smile like that would have come naturally, sprung from the very core of Dean's being, wild and carefree and satisfying. Now it's the result of long hours practice, careful training in front of bathroom mirrors while Sam sleeps fitfully in the next room, re-learning how to manipulate the muscles in his lips so they twitch just so. It's been hard work, but he's almost got it. There's no delay now between cause and effect and the movement itself is almost second nature. Almost perfect.

Except for the eyes.

He still can't quite manage the spark needed in his eyes to complete the deception.

Not that it matters here. This guy's so highly strung he's not looking at the subtleties and the presentation's irrelevant in any case. Dean can see from the way the guy pales, eyes milky wide circles of horror as they focus on the tableaux in the fire, that his gamble was on the money.

Sure enough, Howard's barely finished screaming, just managed three panicky shots - enough to drive Dean to ground - before the young boy in his drawing conjures himself out of the air, sucking up the bullets and scowling up at his brother like they'd been intended for him all along. His phantom clothes and hair are plastered to his phantom skin in a chillingly accurate portrayal of how Howard must have seen him last; rank, dirty water pooling at his feet.

The wretched Howard lowers his gun and backs away, all else forgotten in the face of this single, insurmountable fear.

If he didn't know Sam was out there fighting for his life because of the guy Dean might feel sorry for him. He knows what it's like to run from the past. To end each day exhausted from dodging the blame nipping at your heels with every step, guilt breathing down your neck, hot and putrid. A predator that can't be tamed or repressed or deflected or denied. Not forever. Not when you're the one that spawned it.

As he pushes to his feet Dean's eyes track down to the burning page, its edges already curling into ash. There's still a vague outline of a figure at the bottom, but it's warped. Too big for a child and too misshapen to be human. Then there's the blotches coming from what used to be a mouth, growing darker and more bulbous the higher they get. Glug glug glug up past creepy fish and tentacles of seaweed but stopping just short of the crested waves at the top. Just shy of salvation.

A shiver claws it's way up Dean's spine. The whole thing cuts a little too close to home.

Howard's whimpering now. _It wasn't my fault. I'm sorry._ It won't be long.

There's a crackle and a finger of flame shoots up, grasping ravenous at something new. Desperate to keep its evil purpose alive.

Dean catches a flash of purple before whatever it was shrivels up and for some reason this makes him think of rainbows. Plastic. Howard's perfect smile, eyes and everything. _We don't take cash here at Plucky Pennywhistle's._

Shit. The tickets. They must have been in the same pocket he'd stashed the friggin' clown. Easy enough for a couple to fall out and join the inferno as he turned Howard's voodoo back on him.

A glance across the way shows him phantom brother is still fully occupied, hand reaching out while Howard continues to splutter excuses and regret. Maybe the kid won't get a chance to turn on Dean. If Howard bites it first that should end the spell. Then the burning tickets, and Dean's tenuous but no doubt compelling enough ownership of them, won't matter.

But he knows even before the prickling starts at the back of his neck that it's not the kid he needs to worry about. No, there's something much worse lying in wait for him. Something he's been pushing to the shadows night after restless night, with layers and layers of other terrors piled on top. Because as sickening as the others are - those accusing cat-like eyes, the burn of blood and sulpur, the mad ravings of his brother - Dean knows that this one is the one to break him. The one he can never face, can't even let himself think it. Because there'll be no going back. And it won't be overcome.

"Hello, Dean."

His stomach churns and for a moment Dean is prisoner to the pure physicality of it. The sharp, bitter taste of bile coats his tongue as he fights to keep the dread at bay, incapable of anything but holding fast as the wave passes.

As sensation tingles back, heart hammering his rib cage hard enough to crack the bone but no longer trying to choke its way out of his throat at least, Dean dares to turn his head. The rest of him follows, drawn, it feels, more by some fatalistic force than any conscious decision on his part.

Even expected, it's a heart-stopping moment seeing him standing there, filling the short space to Howard's makeshift alter. Less than two feet away. Personal space treated with as little regard as ever.

Dean has to hand it to Howard, dude's managed some grade A mojo, because this is exactly the Castiel of his nightmares. Slick with black, the stuff matting his hair and dribbling down the already torn and bloody trenchcoat like shiny, foul-smelling pus.

He staggers forward and Dean has an image of one of those gulls littering the beach after an oil spill, prestine white feathers gummed together by the inky fluid, the poor thing flopping about out of control. The victim of something far greater than it could hope to understand.

"What are you gonna do?" Dean chokes out while he still has the strength. "Bite my head off?"

The phantom looks up. It's one eye not glued shut by tar-like ooze is soft and sad. It searches its way to Dean and once it's found him the phantom Castiel's head falls slowly to one side, lips breaking apart to set free a low, despondant sigh.

"I'm not a leviathan, Dean," it tells him with an air of reproach, as if Dean should have known better. "You know what I'm here for."

A sense of shame spills hot over Dean's cheeks and for a moment he feels thirteen again, head bowed as his father berates him for this or that mistake, chest aching not from the harsh words but from his own failure, from knowing he's let his family down. Because yes, he knows what this is. Why pretend?

He steps back anyway, head shaking, hardwired to resist the inevitable.

When he glances across the fire he can see Howard choking, spitting water while his brother looks on. It's almost over. Dean just needs to hold on a little longer.

"No," he tells his own phantom. "We're not doing this."

Pale, slender hands are on him like lightening, so fast Dean doesn't even see Cas move. But then again, maybe he doesn't. Phantom. Cas grips his jacket, fingers twisting and twisting in the fabric, sinuous as wire, and spins him round. Dean feels the base of his spine press against the alter, hears the table rock unsteadily over the floor.

"Yes," Cas says, one good eye fixed on him, unwavering, though Dean thinks his voice sounds tired. "We are."

Dean tries to speak but Cas yanks him close, positions both knees either side of Dean's hips and holds him in place. No escape.

"How could you?"

The words are barely a whisper but it's all they need to be. They've been haunting Dean's dreams too long, skating the edge of every nightmare, for him not to hear them now.

"How could you leave me to them? After everything I did for you?"

He'd always imagined Cas icy cold through these accusations, sopping wet and clammy. But instead the angel's body is hard and warm against his, enough that Dean almost aches for it despite the repellent odour of damp and the nauseating taste of goo lacing the air between them.

"It - it's not - it wasn't -" Dean stutters. _It wasn't my fault. I'm sorry._ Walking in Howard's footsteps already.

"I needed you, Dean," Cas continues, leaning in. Dean can see now his hair is flattened not just with ooze but scummy water too, droplets falling down Cas' neck, travelling along the whorl of an ear. The breath on Dean's face stinks of algae. "Why weren't you there for me?"

"I _was_. You - _he_ knows that," Dean spits back. Trying to distance this _thing_ from the friend he remembers. Trying to stall him long enough for Howard's fear to run its course.

The threadbare trenchcoat should be enough to expose the lie, considering Dean knows for a fact the thing is wrapped up tight and stuffed at the bottom of his duffle in the car. But somehow it's not. Somehow he keeps fixing on that one good, melancholy eye, impossible blue burying deep into his fucking soul, and his grasp on the situation warps and bends, stomach lurching two parts in horror, the rest in a confusion of longing and regret.

"I was there," Dean says again over some faint memory of Sam laughing at him when they were kids. A smoking hot English teacher with satiny curls cascading over her shoulders and legs that went all the way up. _Doth the lady protest too much, Dean?_ "You just had to ask. I was there."

" _I_ was there," Cas thunders back undeterred. "I was there through Lucifer and the apocalypse. Through Sam's betrayal and Alistair's torture. I carried you, Dean. From Hell and for _two years_ since. When it was too much, when you wanted to give up, _I_ brought you back. But the _one time_ I need you, you turn away?"

"Sure you were there. Until you weren't," is the line Dean counters with, but the bravado's token at best. He knows where this is headed and nothing he says will make a difference. "Until you fucked off back to Heaven or to shack up with your new demon BFF."

Glistening lips purse in frustration and all Dean can think is how _wrong_ that lipstick layer of black is over skin that should be pink and chapped. Yet when those lips part the voice is pitch perfect, whiskey filtered through gravel. So much Castiel Dean doesn't know whether he wants to push away or nestle closer.

"Because I had problems of my own, Dean. And your example to guide me," Cas answers in measured tones. "Did you honestly think I had nothing better to do than be your crutch forever?"

The worst part of the reprimand is its utter lack of accusation. There's no anger in the words, no hurt. Only cold, hard fact, lodging like a blade in Dean's gut. Twisting. And the answer sticks, cloying, in the back of his throat. Even unspoken it's enough to leave Dean mortified by his own weakness.

Then Cas forces two oil slick fingers under his chin and pushes up, looking down into Dean's face under clumped up lashes, and Dean knows that single eye can read everything he's not saying.

For the first time since being grabbed Dean tries to squirm away, but Cas' hands move to his biceps and bite down, holding him fast.

"Or maybe you did." Cas dips his head, nodding. "Maybe that's all I was to you. Not human. Not a friend. Merely a prop. Something to lean on. A valet with wings."

" _No._ " The protest tears out of him, even though it makes no difference saying it and Dean knows it. This isn't Cas. The angel won't hear him. Is _never_ going to hear him, however much Dean wants to say. But maybe that's why - why the need is so strong, turning the words sour in his mouth, the sound of them reedy and desperate. "Of course not. I never - you were _family_ \- you were -"

"A brother?"

A fresh line of black dribbles down Cas' chin as his lips flicker. But if the sting of having his words mocked back at him isn't bad enough, the fucking _misery_ on Cas' face is so intense it renders Dean speechless.

"I never believed it," Cas says. "How could I? You drop everything for Sam, sell your soul, but you won't even give me your trust?" With a jerky twist and lurch forward, like he's not in full control of his body, Cas shifts closer. Dean reels from the scent, tries not to gag at the taste of rot and mould. "I _died_ knowing I was never good enough for you. Never had been. Never would be." Cas smears his cheek along Dean's, curls his lips back to hiss in Dean's ear. "And now this is your life, Dean. Without me."

Abruptly Cas yanks away and his sudden absence leaves Dean unbalanced. Grown accustomed to the other's steady, immovable presence, Dean flounders without it, crashing down until his knees and palms slap the ground, the shock of the fall vibrating up his wrists and forearms making him shake.

Cas is on him before he has time to recover, crouching just in his line of vision then pinching the back of his neck. A thumb slides round under Dean's jaw and presses down so when Cas tips his head back all Dean can do is choke and claw ineffectively at the angel's arm.

"Dean..." Cas murmurs, and the quiet, pleading quality of his voice is a total contrast to the vice-like grip he has on Dean's jugular.

On the verge of blacking out Dean knows this is when he should be fighting hardest - biting and scratching, kicking out, anything to break the pressure on his windpipe before it's too late. But all he can think is how tortured that voice sounds. That one syllable stretched out to encompass the whole universe.

And all he wants to do is reach back to it and comfort, scream and scream 'I'm here, I'm here! I'm not going anywhere!' Like he'd finally, secretly, against his better judgement, started to hear in every constant, soul-searching look Cas never stopped giving him, even when they were fighting. Like he'd wanted to in the lab in Bootbock with that second and final once-in-a-lifetime eclipse ticking away and no time, no time at all. And Cas looking at him like the whole world was breaking along with his heart. _I'm sorry, Dean._

So Dean doesn't struggle when he feels his throat being crushed harder. Instead he opens his fists so his hands drop and gives in to it, welcomes the light-headedness that follows and lets himself convulse into solid, immovable arms. Lets their strength bolster him in a way he knows he'll never, ever, get the chance to feel again.

"You can end this, Dean."

Blood rages a tempest in his ears, pinpricks of rain pooling like acid in the corners of his eyes. Dean can't tell if the words are even real at this stage. Though they never were, he supposes, no matter how much he's been fearing them. Or hoping for them. The difference seems minimal now, with blurry blackness circling the edge of his vision.

"I'm no avenging angel. I'm not here to punish you," the voice continues, hurried now. Afraid even. "You _can_ end this. You can be free of me. Just tell me you don't want this."

After such intense deprivation the rush of oxygen into Dean's lungs as Cas pulls off _burns_ its way inside him. Yet despite the pain Dean finds himself gulping in mouthful after greedy mouthful. Unable to stop even when the warm, wet touch of palms on his face reminds him this is far from over. Was this how Cas felt, he wonders, as those monsters dragged him under the depths? Did he gasp, desperate, for air but find only painful, stagnant water instead? Or, no. Cas was gone by then. He never got the chance -

Cas angles Dean's head back, cupping his face so carefully, the touch of his fingers so soft, so tender, it makes Dean want to cry. Then, when he starts to, Cas wipes away the growing spots of tears before they can fall with the pads of his thumb. God, it's been so long since someone took care of him like this, the weeks since they lost Bobby's paternal presence already stretching into lifetimes.

What wouldn't he give for another moment like this? Dean thinks that, even if he'd known what was coming, he might have gone ahead with Lydia anyway. Let her and her Amazon clan use him for their baby boom just to feel her take him like she had. And is that really what it's come to? Finding comfort in monsters? Sam's right, he is a hypocrite. Demons, Amazons, black-blooded bastards - what's the difference.

Black.

Bleeding oil.

Dick.

Dean flinches and tries to shake his head, suddenly aware of all the hateful goo Cas must be coating him in and no, fuck it, no. He won't stand for that. Won't be bested by anything leviathan, fake or otherwise. Not until he's had his chance at the head of the monster.

Except, as he fails to move an inch, he realises in turn that there is no stench, no sticky wetness and two full, round blue eyes staring back at him.

Castiel is whole and clean, dress shirt buttoned up, trenchcoat pristine. His loose, twisted backwards, navy tie is his only imperfection and it's as comforting a consistency as the rest of him. Dean's longing made flesh, and terrifying, absolutely terrifying, because of it.

" _Tell me_ you don't want me to do this, Dean," Cas all but begs, warm dry fingers rubbing delicate circles behind Dean's ears.

Want? To leave Sammy alone in a world on the fast track to Hell, _again?_ Of course not.

And yet. And yet.

Breath rasps at the back of Dean's throat, dry, and when he swallows it's like chewing on sandpaper. But as he gazes at the face of his best - _only_ \- friend, the brow under Cas' windswept hair lined with concern, with _love_ \- unquestioning, unchanging, unfathomable - his friend who's _here_ and not stewed into nothing in some state reservoir, not perverted and broken into some horror Dean's supposed to step up and take responsibility for, there's only one thing he can think to say. The only thing left that matters.

The truth he's been too scared to admit to, even to himself.

"I miss you, Cas."

His voice wavers and breaks on the name and Dean doesn't even try and stop it. Because he knew, _knew_ it would end this way. That there'd be no getting over this.

It seems appropriate it should end with the world swimming, hearing muffled by his pounding heart so he feels underwater. He thinks for a moment there are tears in Cas' eyes as well as the angel circles both hands about his neck, but perhaps that's his watered vision.

Then nothing.

Absence.

Dean blinks, sways and waves his arms through empty air. Rises to his feet with a gasp like a surfacing diver.

Trails of grey smoke dance in front of him out of the still burning can, stinging the water out of his eyes until the image of Howard facedown and unmoving comes into focus.

Over. It's over.

Relief comes a clear couple of seconds after a disappointment so visceral Dean can almost taste it. Which is just another of a dozen things he'll be filing in the 'do not touch' pile.

Shaking, he wipes a hand across his face and, aside from a few tear tracks, finds it clean. Okay. Okay. So he's lived to fight another day. That's a win, right? But did -?

A buzzing in his pants puts his mind at rest before he's even started to worry, though it takes longer than he'd like to read the confirmation in the text, hands trembling as he tries to pluck the phone from his pocket. Eventually though Sam's message is winking up at him from the screen. He's fine. He'll meet Dean outside.

Dean takes a moment to get himself back under control. A few deep breaths. A couple of twitches at the edge of his lips to psych himself up for smiling again.

Nothing sticks this time. In fact, Dean's not sure he'll ever smile again.

But Sam's waiting for him, so he'll have to try.

The colourful, happy-go-lucky playroom upstairs feels surreal after the darkness below and Dean mostly does his best to ignore it. Except something in the pile of toys by the cash register catches his eye and he finds himself staring for long minutes into extravagantly coloured porcelain eyes, shaking his head at the swollen red nose, cartoon grin and oversized shoes.

Goofy, stupid looking thing. After all the horrors they've seen it's nuts to think his little brother still gets the frights over _clowns_. Seriously. Dean has just been through an emotional blender, shaken so bad his legs are still wobbly, while Sam's been out fighting circus freaks? It's ridiculous.

Absurd.

_Hilarious._

It's actually painful the way his face breaks, the sudden curve of his lips so _unexpected_ after weeks of having to plan the move. But, impossibly, it's a good pain. Even the pressure in his chest is welcome this time because Dean knows he won't have to fight it. This isn't the heavy weight of unnameable sorrow he's been clutching at these past months. For the first time in too long it's just the opposite. He doesn't have to be strong and resist this. Instead he can wallow in it. Set it free with joy in his heart. And if there's a touch of hysteria in there too, well who the fuck cares?

Dean swipes the figure off the shelf and stuffs it in his jacket, whistling an old jingle as he heads for the exit.

It might be short lived, but he'll fucking well embrace the relief while it lasts. Even if it changes nothing in the long run.

Even if he knows the nightmare isn't over.

Because, for Dean, it never is.

~ **fin** ~


End file.
